


Doesn't Mean We're Bound For Life

by plinys



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This isn’t one of those things you see in the movies,” he continues, “you know the ones, with the cake, and the hand holding, and the happily ever after. We’re not going to get married and adopt kids and pretend to be some straight couple. This is just mutually beneficial release it’s just-“ </p>
<p>“Stop talking.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doesn't Mean We're Bound For Life

**Author's Note:**

> So, guess who is kind of obsessed with htgawm, and has accidentally fallen in love with the complete a-hole that is Connor Walsh? Yeah, me. Terrible decision really, but it led to me writing this fic, so enjoy or whatever...?

The eighth time this happens he feels the need to correct any misconceptions that Oliver might have had about what they were doing.

He had meant to start off with that and then lead into the whole hooking up thing, but his excuse for coming over laid abandoned in Oliver’s living room, as they had quickly made plans for a very different course of action.

Where they were laying now, looked far too familiar for his comfort.

The last time he’d been here, they’d accidentally fallen asleep afterward and when Connor had awoken he had counted the ceiling tiles, all sixty-four of them, not wanting to disturb the person who had been sleeping beside him. There was definitely a feeling of being too domestic that had sat with him for the next few days, making his stomach turn whenever he thought about it.

It’s now as he lets himself be pushed into the mattress, his eyes flicking upwards to the all too familiar ceiling, that he is reminded of the _real_ reason that he was here.

“This isn’t a relationship,” he says (announces really), to the room about him and the only other person in it.  

Though it’s hard to say that with a straight face, especially when Oliver grinds down against him and he instinctively bucks his hips up to meet his movements.

The pure _want_ coursing through him isn’t helping his focus in the slightest.

Nor does the amused huff that is breathed out against his skin (going straight to his cock) as fingers tighten against his hips.

“This _isn’t_ a relationship,” Connor says between breaths, as if repeating the statement suddenly makes it more solid, more real.

He’s not sure that it even works, but he has to get this out. He has to clear the air, otherwise he’ll spend more nights (far too many at this point) lying awake and trying to remind himself that what they were doing wasn’t anything serious.

That they could stop this at any time, and probably should.

So he forces himself to keep talking even though his entire being wants to struggle against the notion and refuse.

“This isn’t one of those things you see in the movies,” he continues, “you know the ones, with the cake, and the hand holding, and the happily ever after,” he huffs because the whole notion is so silly, so inconceivable, “we’re not going to get married and adopt kids and pretend to be some _straight_ couple. This is just mutually beneficial release it’s just-“

“Stop talking.”

And he’s cut off, lips pressing up against his, swallowing the words that he wants to force out, that he needs to get out.  

He lets the distraction keep them occupied for a while.

The hands that skim up his side are anything but gentle and that’s just the way he likes it.

After all, that’s what this is, right?

A _distraction._

Something to keep his mind off work when he needs it to be, or to get him information for work when he needs that as well.

It’s a mutually beneficial relationship, Connor gets information and distractions and Oliver gets- well, he gets off, at least.

Eventually he twists his head to the side to break the kiss, ignoring the slightly confused look, he continues speaking “we’re not _boyfriends_ , you know that right?”

There’s a dismissive snort that is most definitely not an answer.

He would be more irked with that if there weren’t surprisingly deft fingers (or not so surprisingly, after all it seemed all those hours at a computer could really come in handy) flicking open the button of his pants and unzipping him.

They’ve played at this long enough that Connor knows all the tricks to use. He’s still not certain whether that is a good thing or not.

Still, it takes just one movement and they’re flipped back around (properly, as Connor will point out later when he’s in his right mind), so that once again it is he who is on top, pushing the other man down into the mattress with something that is definitely not fondness.

(Not in the slightest.)

He punctuates each word with a flick of his wrist this time, grounding it in the sensations, “This. Is. Not. A. Relationship.”

“You got rid of the contraction,” is the only answer he gets.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

There’s another one of those laughs, the laughs that send a jolt through him, straight to his chest this time, to the ward part of him that could almost be considered his _heart_ , rather than his cock.

It’s an interesting sensation.

One that he doesn’t want to dwell on, which is why he pushes and pulls and does the thing that is so familiar to them, the routine of fucking that’s just the right side of rough and unattached, that’s everything he seems to need nowadays.

Everything he _craves_.

(He’s never craved somebody before, not like this.)

The words that fall from his lips now are nothing more than a string of curses, there’s no logic, no answers, no time for clarification, just _need._

He’s so lost in the sensations, so swept up in the familiar warmth beneath him, that with each thrust of his hips he can almost pretend that they’ve had the discussion properly and that Oliver had agreed with him.

Connor can pretend that the little (almost smug) “I know” that Oliver huffs out now, is an answer to all of his previous statements, not just agreement regarding Connor’s far too desperate need to get off.

He can’t get the words to come out the way he wants, not when they’re both nearly on the edge, so he kisses Oliver again, trying to get the message across in the only way he can manage.

When he comes there’s a name on his tongue, his own mind willing against him and admitting that this something more.

And as they both lay there, unwilling to get up, to move about and eat leftover take out, or hack secure servers, or whatever Connor’s excuse for being there was- he finds that he could almost like this, in some other life, if he couldn’t see the inevitable down the road coming at them like a train wreck.

“One day I’m going to ask what happened to you,” Oliver says, his voice not more than a whispear, but carrying through the room nonetheless, “what made you not want anything serious-“

“Nothing happened to me,” Connor says with far too much of a defensive snap for it to even sound real to his own ears.

His body is tensely coiled, post-orgasm haze nearly evaporating in his sudden awareness of his position.

People who weren’t in relationships didn’t lay around in bed with their not-boyfriend’s post-sex and bask in the afterglow.

“Of course not,” Oliver just replies, and his tone could have been mocking, but instead it’s just soft and god forbid fond- because they are not _fond_ , “just like we’re not in a relationship.”

“Exactly.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> check me out on [tumblr](plinys.co.vu) and come talk htgawm feels with me, please!


End file.
